


When the Autumn Moon is Bright

by colonel_bastard



Series: S.H.I.E.L.D.D. [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Incredible Hulk (2008), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Hogwartvengers - Freeform, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 09:58:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colonel_bastard/pseuds/colonel_bastard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce Banner never expected life to be easy.  He just didn't expect it to be so hard.  Seems like the deck has been stacked against him from the very beginning— but today just might be the day that his luck starts to change.  </p><p>And man, is it gonna be a hell of a day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Autumn Moon is Bright

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Juno](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Juno/gifts).
  * Translation into Español available: [Cuando la Luna de Otoño es Brillante](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3996022) by [Latexohpo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Latexohpo/pseuds/Latexohpo)



> The long-delayed, long-anticipated continuation of the S.H.I.E.L.D.D. series! I hope it was worth the wait. A special thank you to everyone who ever sent me a message asking for more of this story— your passion for this universe kept it alive in my mind, so that even now, over a year since I last touched it, I suddenly felt compelled to keep going. An extra special thank you to my science-bro-for-life, [Juno](http://junosunderland.tumblr.com/), ever and always the Bruce to my Tony. 
> 
> This one begins the very next day after [This Unfamiliar Road](http://archiveofourown.org/works/506498). 
> 
> As always, all pairings listed in the header are endgame.

" _Even a man who is pure of heart and says his prayers by night  
May still become a wolf when the autumn moon is bright._ "

 

 

Running. 

Prey up ahead. 

Distance closing. 

Blood pounds in his ears, the urge to _kill_ singing hot and hungry in his veins. He runs hard and fast and jumps when he’s close enough, catching his quarry in the back and bringing them both down to the ground. He bites again and again, aiming for the neck, to shake, to snap. The prey blocks his jaws with tender forearms that rip and tear between his teeth, blood spraying from ruptured arteries as a desperate voice screams _stop stop Bruce it’s me it’s Tony please stop Bruce please_ and he wants to stop he _wants_ to stop but he can’t he _can’t_ he has to rip claw devour destroy _kill kill kill_ —

And then he’s waking up with a gasp, drenched in sweat and tangled in the sheets of his bed. It’s morning. The room is filled with sunlight, the details blurred by the absence of his glasses. His mouth is bitter with the taste of blood. 

“You okay, Banner?” 

He twists sharply and sees Phil Coulson watching him from the other side of their shared sleeping quarters, already fully dressed and sitting quietly on the edge of his perfectly-made bed. Bruce can only imagine what a horrible racket he must have been making, growling and running in his sleep like a dog. 

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, reaching for his glasses on the bedside table. 

And Phil, bless his heart, makes a big show of stooping down to tie his shoes, as if _that_ was the only possible reason he hasn’t gone down to breakfast yet. Straightening up, he gives Bruce a kind smile. 

“I’ll see you at the table.”

He leaves with all the tact and discretion that Bruce could have ever wished for in a roommate. The other Ravenclaw boys must have scrambled to get ready and get out as soon as Bruce started tossing and turning, but Phil stuck around just long enough to make sure he was all right, then exited gracefully without making a fuss. Bruce is lucky to have him. 

_Lucky._ Not a word he would typically use to describe himself. 

He pads into the bathroom and checks his tongue in the mirror. As he suspected, he’s bitten it in his sleep. That explains the taste of blood, anyway. He winces at the rest of his reflection. He looks like hell. 

Exhausted by the nightmare, he gets dressed in a sluggish funk, his socks mismatched, his tie hanging loosely around an unbuttoned collar. He knows that Tony will tease him for being sloppy. Tony always buttons his top button and keeps his tie crisp and neat. He makes the uniform looks downright fashionable. That’s because Tony cares a lot about what he looks like. Bruce doesn’t give a damn. 

He trudges down to the Great Hall and heads for the Ravenclaw table, making his way up the aisle that borders Slytherin. He spots Tony halfway up its length, sitting directly across from a jealously-guarded empty space on the Ravenclaw bench. Bruce smiles when he sees it. He knows it’s for him. 

“Morning, sunshine,” Tony grins as he sits down. 

“Hey, Tony.” 

There’s an empty plate in front of him and Bruce sets to filling it, taking generous helpings from the various trays and dishes scattered around him. He’s always ravenous after the Wolf dreams. Something about running and hunting, even just in his sleep, really works up his appetite. He’s so focused on the food that he hardly notices Tony wriggling his way into the space on the bench beside him. 

“Wow, okay, good to know that breakfast is more interesting than _me,_ ” he huffs.

“I’m hungry,” Bruce says absently. 

“Clearly.” Tony gives a mocking discretionary cough. “You know, you could at least _pretend_ you’re going to eat something other than dead animals.” 

With a guilty start, Bruce looks down at his plate and sees nothing but sausages, ham, and a mountain of bacon. He hastily grabs half of a grapefruit and some sort of pastry, though the sweet smell turns his stomach. He only wants meat. 

“Good call,” Tony remarks. “That danish ought to throw them off the trail.” 

“Thanks for the heads-up,” Bruce mutters.

He doesn’t really feel like chatting. He focuses on his meal instead, concentrating on cutting up a sausage into bite-size chunks. 

“Hey, what’s with the long face, Eeyore?” Tony leans down and peers up, trying to angle his face into Bruce’s line of sight. “You lose your tail again?” 

Bruce gives him a sharp look, ready to scold him for making one of _those_ jokes; the ones involving tails and fur and moons, the ones that make Bruce sweat and stare at the faces around him, wondering if everyone knows. He wants to be mad— but then he sees Tony’s crooked grin and realizes that he just wants to cheer him up. He sighs. 

“I didn’t sleep well last night,” he confesses. 

“Oh,” Tony frowns.

He knows it’s code for _nightmare._ But he doesn’t know — can _never_ know — that the nightmares are about him. Bruce’s ears are still ringing with the echoes of Tony’s screams, but he won’t say a word. He just gulps down his breakfast, hoping that he might feel a bit better if he can at least get rid of these awful hunger pangs. 

“I had a nightmare, too,” Tony says. “I dreamt that a crazy old man forced the two of us to join this ridiculous band of Mouseketeers and then implemented a psychotic buddy system that paired me with Captain Wonderpants.” 

Bruce chuckles weakly. “Hate to break it to you, pal, but that wasn’t a dream. That was yesterday.” 

Tony shakes his fists in the air and whisper-yells, “ _Noooooo!_ ” Then he drops his arms, his voice pitched back to normal. “But seriously, whatever Fury’s smoking, I want some. That shit must make even the stupidest ideas seem _brilliant._ ”

“It’s not such a bad idea,” Bruce shrugs. “They just want us all to get along.” 

“You _hippie,_ ” Tony hisses mock-accusingly. “I think it’s a waste of time. I get bored enough in class as it is. Now we’re all gonna be trust-falling and hand-holding? Gimme a break.”

“Some of us could do with a little trust-falling,” Bruce mumbles into his bacon. 

Tony doesn’t hear him. “And Steve _Rogers?_ The White Knight of Gryffindor? Is this Fury’s idea of a joke?” 

Bruce speaks up a little more this time. “Only if the punchline is you getting knocked on your ass.” 

Tony waves dismissively. “He got lucky.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it.” Bruce insists. “That was skill, Tony. Rogers is good at strategy, that’s why he’s such a good captain.”

“He’s a good captain because he’s a good team player,” Tony scoffs. “Always obeys the rules.”

“Speaking of _rules,_ ” Maria Hill, fellow sixth year and a Ravenclaw Prefect, is glaring at them from across the table. “You’re not allowed to sit here, Stark.” 

“So call the aurors,” Tony smirks. 

“No, she’s right,” Bruce says, silently begging him not to cause any trouble. “You better go.” 

Tony looks like he’s considering making a scene, but at Bruce’s pleading stare, he relents and rolls his eyes. 

“Whatever,” he snorts. “I gotta get to Transfiguration, anyway.” He gives Bruce a wink. “Later, dogbreath.” 

Bruce watches him go with a fond smile. Across the table, Maria is giving him a disapproving look, and it turns his smile apologetic before he gives his attention over to his breakfast. By the time he gets up from the table, the only thing left behind on his plate is half of a grapefruit and some sort of pastry. 

He has a free period after breakfast on Tuesdays. Actually, he has a free period after breakfast every day of this term. That was the plan. He has a daily appointment to keep. While the other students are heading to class or hitting the library, he’s loping up the long spiral staircase that leads to Professor Weasley’s office. At the door, he gives three quick raps with his knuckles, then two slow, then three more fast before letting himself inside. 

“Hello, Bruce,” says Professor Weasley.

“Hello, Bill,” says Bruce. 

Bill Weasley gets up from behind his desk and meets Bruce at the halfway point of the office for a hug. He’s one of the few people that Bruce will accept the gesture from. Tony’s on that list, too. It’s a pretty short list. 

“It’s good to see you,” Bill says, tousling his hair as they separate. “I was sorry to miss you yesterday. How was your summer?”

“It was all right,” Bruce shrugs. “Spent most of it reading.” 

Bill chuckles. “I’ll bet Tony didn’t like that.”

Bruce rolls his eyes. “He survived.” 

Ever since their second year at Hogwarts, Bruce has spent all of his holidays at Stark Manor. Mr. and Mrs. Stark are exceptionally welcoming, especially when it comes to staying for the summer. It’s their habit to spend that season touring the world, and up until Bruce’s arrival Tony had customarily been left at home with only the house-elf, Jarvis, for company. Now at last he has a companion his own age, and over the years Howard and Maria have grown accustomed to returning home and finding every room of the Manor stuffed to bursting with a kaleidoscope of charmed objects and strange potions of the boys’ own design. They’ve always been perfectly kind to Bruce; Maria even seems genuinely fond of him. 

But then again, they don’t _know._

That’s enough idle talk. There’s work to do. Bill heads back to his desk, where a copy of _Spellman’s Syallbary_ lies open beside a parchment scribbled all over with notes. Bruce heads over to a table in the corner, where he flips up the ornate tablecloth to reveal the cabinet hidden underneath. 

“Anyway,” he calls over his shoulder as he crouches in front of the lock panel. “Tony wasn’t home much. This year he went out globe-trotting with his folks.”

It’s the first summer they’ve spent apart since this all started. Tony admitted that he felt bad for leaving him behind, but honestly, Bruce didn’t mind having Stark Manor to himself for a while. He was actually a little bit excited at the idea of all that peace and quiet. He was even more excited for Tony to get a chance to spend some time with his father. Bruce doesn’t know what it would feel like to _want_ such a thing, but he knows that it’s important to Tony and that’s what matters. 

“Taking the little prodigy out for a spin, was he?” Bill says knowingly. “That Mr. Stark certainly does like to show off.”

“Well, Tony likes to be shown off,” Bruce sighs. “So it all works out.” 

And yet Mr. Stark still hasn’t seemed to realize that Tony would like it even more if they could all just stay home for a summer and actually get to know each other. 

Bruce sets to work unlocking the cabinet. The panel consists of a series of rune keys that can be slid about and rearranged in sequence. He selects one with each index finger and shifts their positions, one moving upwards and one to the right. It’s a complex code, one that he designed himself, and no one knows how to open it except for him and Bill Weasley. Not even Tony knows, and he’s the one that built the cabinet in the first place. Bruce challenged him to build a hiding place that no one could ever break into. Tony didn’t bother to ask what it was meant to hide. They both knew. 

The panel gives a satisfactory _click_ and the cabinet doors pop open. Bruce takes out what he needs and transfers it to the tabletop— the hourglass, the jar of aconite root, and lastly the pewter cauldron filled three-quarters of the way with his latest batch of Wolfsbane Potion. He moves that one very gently, careful not to spill a single drop. Checking the sand in the glass, he sees that he still has plenty of time to prepare the root. He selects a piece from the jar and brings over a set of scales from one of the office shelves. The quantity must be exact. 

“Victoire said her first word a few weeks ago,” Bill says, looking up from his scribbling to grin proudly. 

“Let me guess,” Bruce chuckles. “ _Mama._ ”

Bill grins even wider. “Got it in one.” 

Not many would have predicted that there might one day be a Professor Weasley— least of all Bill himself. But after the Wizarding War, he says, it just seemed to make sense. Hogwarts needed him. And he needed a safe, stable job; once he and Fleur decided they were ready to start a family, he rather lost his taste for traveling and treasure-hunting. Now, with just a handful of Floo powder, he can be back at Shell Cottage every night in time for dinner. And while he hadn’t exactly _planned_ to become one of the youngest Heads of House ever named, somehow it ended up turning out that way. To hear Bill tell it, his mother still bursts into tears every time he says his full title out loud. William A. Weasley, Professor of Ancient Runes and Head of Gryffindor House. It certainly does have a nice ring to it. 

“She’ll be talking your ear off before you know it.” Bruce uses a small silver knife to shave off bits of the root until the scales sit correctly. “Enjoy the silence while you can.”

“Oh, no,” Bill shakes his head. “I can’t wait until I can talk to her.” Then his smile turns sad, his gaze distant. “I was holding her last night, just carrying her about on the beach. And out of the blue, she looked at me and said, _Papa_. Then she reached out and put her hand on my face—” Bill demonstrates the gesture. “—and she said, _ow._ ” 

His fingertips are resting on the scars given to him by Fenrir Greyback. Bruce’s hand goes reflexively to the juncture of his neck and left shoulder. His own scars are relatively easy to hide. At least his father granted him that courtesy. 

“That’s going to be an interesting conversation,” Bill observes. “Some day.” 

“At least you don’t turn,” Bruce offers, trying to make a joke out of it. “Once she gets a little older, she’d probably want to braid your fur.” 

It works. Bill laughs. Then, without thinking, he clarifies, “Of course, I would never—”

He bites down on it before he can finish the sentence, but it’s too late. It’s already been said. Even with all the Wolfsbane Potion in the world— even if he were in iron chains— he would never risk exposing his child to such a monster. 

“Look, Bruce—” Bill says, awkward.

But there’s a soft chime and they both know that the hourglass has just run out. Without a word, Bruce turns back to his work. He takes the aconite root off the scale and lowers it gently into the cauldron, slowly so as not to cause a splash. Then he draws his wand and traces a quick circle around the pewter rim. 

“ _Solvatus._ ”

He flips the hourglass over again, resetting it for another twenty-four hours. Wolfsbane Potion requires that one portion of aconite root be added at the same time every day for the two weeks leading up to its completion. That’s the easy part. The tricky stuff comes at the very beginning and, of course, the very end. Bruce used to dread the final stages of the potion, but by now he’s done it so many times that he hardly remembers the difficulty. Before that it was Professor Slughorn who brewed the potion for him. He was more than happy to do so, but Bruce insisted on taking over the task at the end of his fourth year, surprising everyone except Tony. Considering its inevitable necessity, Bruce had simply elected to learn it sooner rather than later.

As he finishes putting his supplies back into the cabinet, Bill clears his throat. 

“Look, Bruce—” he tries again.

“It’s fine,” Bruce says. 

“—it’s different with you. I don’t— it’s just— it’s _me_.” Bill rakes a hand through his hair, abashed. “I couldn’t trust myself.” 

Bruce closes the cabinet and listens to the soft whirs of the lock shifting back into place. Somewhere behind the buzz, he can still hear traces of Tony’s screams. 

“Yeah.” He tries to smile but it comes out bitter. “I know the feeling.” 

And of course Bill means well, Bruce thinks, as he trudges back down the stairs to attend his first class of the day. In point of fact, Bill is probably the only person in this entire school who’s even _close_ to understanding what Bruce is dealing with. But sometimes, close isn’t enough. Sometimes Bruce needs someone who absolutely _knows_ what it feels like. And it’s at times like that— times like _this_ — that he misses Remus Lupin more than he can ever say.

Ravenclaw is paired with Gryffindor for Herbology. Bruce isn’t surprised to see some of his fellow S.H.I.E.L.D.D. participants in the greenhouse— both Steve Rogers and Phil Coulson hope to become Aurors when they graduate, and you need at least five N.E.W.T.s to qualify. Phil, like Bruce and most other Ravenclaws, is taking more than enough classes already, but Bruce suspects that this is Steve’s fifth and final class of the term, the only elective beyond the four mandatory subjects required for Auror candidacy. Either way, neither of them is here because of any particular passion for the material. Aurors don’t _need_ to know Herbology. Healers do, and so here Bruce stands, learning how to pack dragon dung fertilizer around the roots of ailing Venomous Tentacula plants. Professor Sprout likes him and calls on him often. Then again, being a quiet and diligent student, he is well-liked by all his professors. 

He counts the minutes until class is over, and bolts the moment they’re dismissed. He can hardly keep himself from running as he hurries back across the grounds towards the castle. Then it’s down and down the familiar stone steps, the air around him growing cooler as he descends into the Hogwarts dungeons. It’s the first Potions class of their sixth year. He knows what that means. This is his _chance._

There are a total of fifteen students progressing to the N.E.W.T. level. Bruce counts four Gryffindors— all aspiring Aurors, all required to be here. Same goes for the two Hufflepuffs, Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton. There are five Ravenclaws including himself, and four Slytherins including Tony, who waves cheerfully when he sees him. 

“How’s the greenhouse?” he wonders. “You growing any ganja in there yet?” 

“Not that I’ve noticed,” Bruce replies. “I’ll keep an eye out.” 

He reaches into his bag and runs his thumb along the spine of his copy of _Advanced Potion-Making._ Tony observes the gesture with a smirk. 

“You nervous?”

“Yeah.” Bruce swallows hard, his throat uncomfortably dry. “I just need to know what we’re making. Then I can relax.” 

“Why’s that, Banner?” A new voice interjects. “You think you got this in the bag?” 

Bruce sighs, already dreading the confrontation. 

“I think I got a pretty good shot, yeah.” 

He turns to face Emil Blonsky, the Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team and one of the most competitive students in the whole school. Emil has a _problem_ with Bruce, and Bruce still isn’t entirely sure why. He suspects that Emil is threatened by his tremendous skill at Potions, a subject that Emil has struggled with in the past. That, and he seems to have confused Bruce’s inferiority complex with a _su_ periority complex, a misunderstanding that Bruce has been unable to shake. The more Bruce tries to avoid him, the more smug and aloof he appears, and that’s something that a guy like Emil interprets as both an insult and a challenge. Somehow, without his intention or consent, Bruce has acquired a rival. He hates it. 

“I wouldn’t relax just yet,” Emil warns him. “You’re not the only one trying to win today.”

Bruce gives a vague shrug, hoping that an acknowledgment will be the end of it. He forgets to take into account the fact that Tony might not be so obliging.

“What, you think he’s intimidated by _you?_ ” Tony guffaws, rolling his eyes at his own team Captain. “Puh- _lease_. Thor _Odinson_ has a better shot at beating him.”

“Shut up, Stark,” Emil snaps. “It’s not like your chances are any better.”

“Maybe so,” Tony grins. “But unlike you, I don’t _need_ that prize to make my life awesome.” 

Emil flashes his teeth in irritation, but witty comebacks have never been his strong suit. Instead, he wisely chooses to distance himself rather than give Tony an opportunity to really lay into him. Beaming triumphantly, Tony thumps Bruce in the ribs with his elbow. 

“You got this, furball. It’s all yours.” 

The classroom is already filled with vapors and smells when they file inside. In the center of the room is a table with a cauldron sitting on each corner, each one brimming with a different potion that Bruce is able to identify on sight. Each side of the center table is bordered by another table meant for students. They disperse themselves accordingly, Gryffindors all together at one, Ravenclaws all together at another— except the tables are only meant for four, meaning Bruce gets left out. That’s fine with him. He’d rather sit with Tony, but the Slytherin table is already at capacity. Undeterred, Tony jumps out of his seat and grabs Bruce by the arm, dragging him over to sit at the last table with the two Hufflepuffs. Clint shoots Tony a sneer of annoyance, while Natasha regards Bruce with a chilly expression. Great. This was supposed to be the class he _enjoyed._

“Welcome, everyone, welcome,” Professor Slughorn beams at them all. “I am positively thrilled to see such an excellent turnout for the N.E.W.T. level this year! No doubt you’re all as eager to get started as I am, so let’s not waste any time, shall we? Books out, please, as well as your scales and potion kits.”

There’s a burst of rustling and rummaging as the students comply. Tony has a silver cauldron and a crisp new copy of _Advanced Potion-Making._ Bruce still uses his first-year pewter cauldron, and his book is battered and well-worn. The former he doesn’t care about one way or the other. The latter he wouldn’t trade for all the Galleons in the world. 

“Now then,” Slughorn calls over the din, effectively bringing it down to silence. “I’ve prepared a few things in advance for you to have a look at. These are all potions that you will be able to brew by the end of your N.E.W.T. studies, and while you may not be able to do so just yet, you should certainly be able to identify them.”

As he poses the challenge, Slughorn meets Bruce’s eye and winks. The truth is unspoken. _Is anyone **other** than Mr. Banner able to do it?_ Bruce has been a Potions prodigy from the moment he got his hands on his first cauldron. It’s earned him not only the acclaim of his professor, but also a permanent slot in the Slug Club. Professor Slughorn expects great things out of him. Bruce can only hope he doesn’t disappoint him. 

“Let’s try... this one to start with.”

The potion Slughorn indicates has the appearance of a thick, dark mud, its surface occasionally rising and then bursting in a series of sluggish bubbles. A few students begin to raise their hands, but they don’t even get the chance to fully extend their arms. 

“Polyjuice Potion,” Loki calls out. “Allows the drinker to assume the form of someone else.” 

Slughorn frowns. “That is correct, Mr. Odinson. Five points to Slytherin.” He wags a scolding finger. “Though it would have been ten if you’d had the courtesy to raise your hand.” 

Loki arches an eyebrow, unfazed by the reprimand. 

“He was raking in the points this morning at Transfiguration,” Tony whispers to Bruce, a note of genuine Slytherin pride in his voice. “He’s got nothing to worry about.” 

“Very well,” Slughorn continues. “On to the next.” 

He gestures towards a brew with a distinctive pearlescent shine. From its surface, tendrils of steam rise in neat little spirals. Bruce already knows what it is. He’s been trying to avoid catching a whiff of it. 

Phil Coulson raises his hand, then points timidly at the cauldron in question.

“That’s, uh, Amortentia. It’s a love potion.” He swallows hard. “It smells different to everyone, reminding each person of the things they find most attractive.” 

“Very good, Mr. Coulson. Ten points to Ravenclaw.” 

Bruce watches the way Phil licks his lips and leans towards the aroma. He tries to imagine the fragrance that Coulson must be smelling right now— _leather, the Quidditch pitch, a sweat-stained Gryffindor uniform. Maybe even a dash of those alpha male pheromones that are so distinctive of a team Captain._ That one’s obvious. Bruce wonders if any of his fellow students are surprised by what they smell. 

Intrigued, he sneaks surreptitious glances at his tablemates. Tony’s smile is so wide and lazy that Bruce can only assume that the brew has assumed the aroma of Tony himself, a potent mix of Galleons and expensive cologne reflected right back into his own conceited nose. Across the table, Clint Barton’s nostrils are wide and flared, his brain no doubt overloading from both the smell of the potion and the fact that he’s sitting so close to its original source. Natasha, for her part, doesn’t seem to notice that Clint is staring at the back of her head. Her attention is riveted on the next potion in line, just waiting for Slughorn to ask someone for the answer. 

Just out of curiosity, Bruce takes a deep inhale of the steam. In a flash the Wolf takes over, his senses suddenly swamped with the stench of fresh blood on wet leaves, heady and unbearably strong. In the next moment it’s gone. 

That’s all right. He was never really the romantic type, anyway. 

“Now on to our next potion,” Slughorn continues. “What might we have in— Miss Romanoff?”

Natasha’s hand was in the air before he could finish his sentence. She points confidently at the cauldron of colorless liquid and declares, “Veritaserum. Truth-telling potion.”

“Excellent, Miss Romanoff! Ten points to Hufflepuff.”

Of course Natasha would recognize Veritaserum. Probably already knows how to brew it— or if not, she’s working up to it. The thought of Natasha Romanoff with a stash of Veritaserum is about as comforting as the thought of Loki Odinson with a stash of Polyjuice Potion. It’s bad enough that she already suspects Bruce of hiding something; he’ll have to be extra careful around her this year. At least he has his heightened senses. Most people assume Veritaserum is odorless. They’re wrong. 

“And now,” Professor Slughorn is practically glowing with glee. “The grand finale. I believe that more than a few of you will be able to identify this little concoction.”

It’s even more beautiful than Bruce thought it would be— thick and golden, gleaming like the sun, with big fat drops leaping joyfully all about its surface. Half the class has their hands in the air, begging to be called upon. Bruce joins them.

“Mr. Banner,” Slughorn says warmly. “Would you care to give us its name?”

“It’s Felix Felicis, sir,” Bruce answers with pride. “Liquid luck.”

Slughorn gives a magnanimous nod. “Ten points to Ravenclaw.” 

Then he claps his hands together and rubs them briskly. Everyone in the class seems to lean forward in anticipation. All eyes are riveted on the cauldron bubbling with gold. 

“Well then, as I’m sure many of you know, I like to play a little game with my students at the beginning of their N.E.W.T. studies.” Slughorn surveys his classroom, clearly basking in their rapt attention. “We shall be having a contest, and that contest shall have a prize.”

From an inner pocket of his robe, he withdraws a tiny vial with a tiny cork in it. The contents shimmer in the dim dungeon light. 

“One bottle of Felix Felicis for the winner!” He holds it aloft for them all to see. “A small dose, only enough for twelve hours of luck, but imagine what one could accomplish in a day! And all you have to do in order to claim this prize as your own is brew the finest potion in this classroom.” 

He tucks the vial away with a mischievous gleam in his eye. 

“Now, it has not gone unnoticed by me that my sixth years tend to very much enjoy the smell of Amortentia. I daresay some of you may even be tempted to try making it yourselves, and to that end, we have today’s challenge!” He allows a dramatic pause before clarifying. “Not to brew the potion itself, mind you, but to brew its _antidote_.” 

There’s no need to check. Bruce has the book memorized. _Amortentia, page thirty-nine. Antidote for Amortentia, page forty-two._

“Let’s see who would have the best chance at saving themselves from this ensnarement, shall we?” Slughorn laughs and gestures expansively at the gathered students. “Turn to page forty-two of your textbooks and let the brewing commence!” 

Bruce doesn’t turn to the assignment right away. Instead, he cracks the book open at the very first page, where he presses his fingertips over the handwritten inscription, neatly printed long before Bruce was even born. 

_This book is the property of R. J. Lupin._

“Wish me luck, Remus,” he whispers. 

_You’ll do just fine,_ Remus would have replied. 

All around him the classroom bustles with activity. Across the table, Clint is frantically counting porcupine quills while Natasha has already started weighing her portion of dandelion root. Beside him, Tony is still idly flipping through the pages of his textbook, seemingly in no hurry. Typical Tony. He knows he doesn’t have a chance at winning, so he doesn’t want to go through the indignity of trying and failing in front of everybody. Better to just dawdle the class away than risk embarrassment. That’s fine with Bruce. The less competition, the better. 

Some potions are still beyond even his talented grasp. Felix Felicis is one of them, and it’s the only one he wants. It’s the only one he _needs._ Most of the students here want to win a chance at a wonderful day. Bruce wants to win a chance to accomplish something. It’s a difficult venture, and he’ll need all the help and good fortune he can muster. One lucky day is all he needs. After a lifetime of unluckiness, is that too much to ask? 

He calms his mind and sets to work. Steady. Focus. Nothing brings him serenity like the art of potion-making. It’s so simple, yet so complex; so powerful, yet so predictable. There’s a certain logic to potions, a sense of order and control that brings him immense comfort. He once clung to that order when he had nothing else to cling to. There was a time when it was the only thing left in his world that made any sense. 

He was nine when his mother died. That same year his father took them both to live with Fenrir Greyback’s wolf pack, where they supposedly _belonged._ It was true for one of them, at least. Brian Banner was in every sense an animal, but although he gave his son the form of a beast, he was never able to give him the heart of one. Bruce was his mother’s child. She had once been something called a _Hufflepuff._ Bruce never forgot the word, no matter how hard his father tried to wring it out of him. 

He was almost ten when Remus Lupin came to live among them, a vain attempt to earn the werewolves’s trust and make them allies in the coming war. Although his mission was ultimately a failure, Lupin would later say that he had one great success: his discovery of the little Potions master living right under the wolves’s noses. Denied access to a wand or any kind of proper supplies, Bruce was secretly improvising with what some might call “poor man’s potions.” They were base and crude, but they could all be made with common ingredients that might be collected on one long walk through the woods. Without a wand he could never truly complete his work, but Bruce spent countless hours combining ingredients in an old copper saucepan he’d somehow scrounged up for himself, taking his cues from what scraps of pages he’d managed to salvage from his mother’s books before they left their home behind. 

When Lupin found him tinkering in a cave almost a mile away from the main camp, Bruce was certain he was done for. There wasn’t a single soul in the world he trusted, and he was sure that Lupin would immediately turn him in for what he’d done. Instead, to his undying and utter amazement, Lupin crept into the cave beside him and asked if he could watch Bruce work. And at the end of it, at the point when Bruce would usually tip out the saucepan and start over, Lupin produced his wand. It was only a simple illumination potion made of weeds and roots, but it worked. It actually worked. Bruce had never known what he was truly capable of until he saw that cave filled with a pale green light of his own creation. 

Lupin was the first werewolf Bruce had ever met who didn’t let himself be defined by the beast inside him. It was a glimmer of hope— Bruce had seen firsthand what the monster could drive men to do, and he lived in dread of his own inevitably violent future. Lupin was the first person to tell him that it didn’t have to be that way. They had many long, solemn discussions on the subject. _Yes,_ Lupin would say, _The Wolf is a part of you. But so is your sense of humor, and your love of chocolate, and your skill with potions. We are all comprised of many different pieces. It’s up to you to decide which ones make you who you really are._

Before he left the pack, Lupin gave Bruce his old copy of _Advanced Potion-Making._ He presented it to him in secret, both of them knowing that he would need to keep it well hidden. 

_“I want you to read this,” Lupin says. “So you can see what your future holds.”_

_Bruce cracks the book open to peek at the text inside, then frowns._

_“Boomslang skin? Lionfish spine?” He gives Lupin a despairing look. “Remus, I’ll never be able to get my hands on any of this!”_

_“You will,” Lupin assures him. “When you get to Hogwarts.”_

_Bruce is so stunned that he drops the present, and so frightened of his father overhearing that he takes several steps backwards in alarm. Lupin picks up the book and dusts it off, then guides Bruce to a place where he can sit down. Once he does, Lupin crouches in front of him so they’re eye to eye. He reaches out to lay a hand on Bruce’s shoulder._

_“You deserve to be there, Bruce,” he says earnestly. “You have a wonderful mind and a great gift. You can’t let it go to waste.”_

_It hurts. He wants to go. He **wants** to go. Bruce can feel the tears coming on, burning his eyes, his throat constricting with misery. _

_“Dad’ll never let me,” he chokes out._

_His next breath catches on a sob that he only just manages to hold back. And as Lupin immediately pulls him into his arms to comfort him, Bruce wonders if this is what having a father is supposed to feel like._

_Lupin holds him until he stops shaking. Then he gently disentangles himself and pulls away. Bruce can’t even look at him, he’s so upset. He stares at the ground instead._

_“Listen to me,” Lupin says. “You’re not turning eleven until December. That means you won’t even be eligible to go until next year. A lot can happen in a year, Bruce. A lot can change.”_

_He crooks a finger and uses it to lift Bruce’s chin, forcing him to meet his eyes._

_“I promise,” Lupin says softly, “that I will do everything in my power to make sure you attend Hogwarts when the time comes. I will make a place for you, Bruce, I swear it. But you’ve got to be strong, all right? You can’t give up. Keep practicing.”_

_He presses the book into Bruce’s grasp, wrapping his own hands around Bruce’s and encouraging him to hold tight._

_“Read this,” he says, smiling. “It will give you all sorts of ideas.”_

_“Remus,” Bruce whispers. “Please don’t go.”_

_But Lupin’s smile only becomes sad, and he rises reluctantly back to his full height._

_“I’m afraid I’ve quite worn out my welcome with Mr. Greyback. I can’t stay.”_

_“Then take me with you.”_

_“I can’t do that either, Bruce. I’m so sorry.”_

_Bruce clutches the book to his chest, his heart pounding with sudden fear._

_“I will see you again, won’t I?”_

_“Of course,” Lupin nods. “If not before, then I’ll see you when you get to Hogwarts. A lot can change in a year, remember? They might give me my old post back. Then I could be your teacher good and proper.”_

_“I’d like that.”_

_They embrace. And for a moment Bruce feels so connected to this man that he believes even their Wolves must be friends, recognizing in each other a bond so deep that it transcends forms and minds. He takes a deep inhale through his nose, committing Lupin’s scent to memory so he’ll be able to find him again._

_“Goodbye, Remus.”_

_“Take care, Bruce.”_

That was the last time Bruce ever saw him. 

For over a year he wondered daily where Lupin was and what he was doing, hoping against all hope that he was safe. He received no answers until the bloody aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts, when he learned that both of his fathers had been taken from him on the same day. 

In the months leading up to what should have been his first year at school, Bruce was an orphan, a ward of the Ministry. Because of his condition, he’d given up any hope of ever attending Hogwarts. Without Lupin as his advocate he didn’t see how it could be possible. It had never occurred to him that Lupin might speak of him to others, let alone that those others might take it upon themselves to make sure Lupin’s promise came true. 

When Bruce met Bill Weasley for the first time, he immediately recognized the marks on his face as wolf scars. Then he understood. Lupin had formed a pack of his own, a pack of three, and even though they would never get the chance to all be together, the bond was still there. And just as Lupin had promised, September 1st found Bruce on the Hogwarts Express. 

The rest, as they say, is history. 

Now here he is, agonizing over the application of honeywater to his cauldron because he wants that Felix Felicis so bad he can almost taste it. Never has he been so exact with his measurements, nor so meticulous with his scale. It has to be as close to perfect as he can possibly manage. There are some seriously talented potion-makers in the room— Loki Odinson has an excellent touch for the craft, and Natasha might even manage to win just through sheer determination. Sparing a glance to his right, Bruce sees Tony taking his sweet time with the salamander blood. 

The Gryffindors all have their heads bent to the task; although none of them are likely to triumph, they’re all going to give it their best shot. Bruce’s biggest threat at the Ravenclaw table is certainly Betty Ross, nearly his equal in the subject. Tony has claimed, repeatedly and irritatingly, that she has a crush on Bruce. Bruce really doesn’t want to think about that kind of thing right now. Or maybe ever. After seeing the way his father treated his mother, he’s not sure if marriage is really a good idea for someone like him. 

Over at the Slytherin table, a nearly-hysterical Justin Hammer shrieks “ _I did it!_ ” moments before the contents of his entire cauldron evaporate in a cloud of cerulean steam. Tony breaks out delighted giggles. 

“Come now, Mr. Stark,” Professor Slughorn chides from his desk. “Let’s keep our attention on our work, shall we?”

Bruce just tries to block them all out. He’s in the home stretch, alternating clockwise and counterclockwise stirs, the brew turning a deep, rich burgundy. After twenty alternating turns, he lays aside his tools and waits for the surface of the potion to settle. When it goes smooth and still and he can see the faint silver flecks dotted in its depths like constellations, he knows he’s done it. 

Professor Slughorn calls time. Clint Barton immediately groans in disappointment and buries his face in his arms on the tabletop; a quick peek into his cauldron reveals a purple mass as solid as concrete. Natasha frowns intently at her own potion. The coloring looks all right from where Bruce is sitting, but he isn’t sure if she’s managed to coax out the silver speckles, the effervescence that indicates the potion is active. Tony’s cauldron is just a mess. 

Slughorn makes his way around the classroom, peering into cauldrons and offering suggestions for improvement. He spends a good deal of time studying Loki’s effort, which makes Bruce nervous. He spends even more time with Betty Ross, praising the accuracy of her coloring and consistency. When he comes to Bruce’s potion, however, his face splits into an unabashed grin. 

“Marvelous, Mr. Banner!” he exclaims in delight. “Simply marvelous!” 

He gives Tony’s and Clint’s potions a cursory glance, but although he does look twice at Natasha’s, it’s clear that Slughorn has already made up his mind. 

“We have a winner, ladies and gentlemen— Mr. Bruce Banner of Ravenclaw!” And as he presses the vial of liquid luck into Bruce’s eager hands, he murmurs sincerely, “Well done, Mr. Banner.” 

Bruce’s knees are so weak with relief that he almost collapses when Tony slings an arm around his shoulders.

“I knew it! I knew it!” Tony crows. “Step aside, everybody, undisputed Potions master, coming through!” He drops his voice into a whisper only Bruce can hear. “Be honest, is your tail wagging? Don’t tell me you’re not wagging your tail in your head.” 

Bruce manages a feeble chuckle. “There might be some wagging, yeah.” He shrugs Tony’s arm off of him. “Hey, listen, I gotta take care of something real quick — I’ll see you at lunch?” 

“Sure thing, Fido,” Tony winks and clicks his tongue. “Don’t chug it all at once!” 

“I’ll try and restrain myself.” 

He wants to run but he’s still too giddy and uncoordinated. He’s practically trembling with adrenaline, his legs wobbly with the intensity of it. He has to be very careful on the stairs up to Bill Weasley’s office. Three quick knocks, two long, three quick, and he throws the door open and stumbles inside. 

“I got it,” he says breathlessly. 

Bill looks up from his desk. “Got what?”

Grinning, Bruce holds his prize aloft. First Bill squints to see it, then his eyes widen in amazement and delight. 

“That’s fantastic, Bruce!” he exclaims. “Congratulations! I knew it’d be you.”

“Thanks, Bill.” 

“Are you going to use it straight off? Or are you saving it for a rainy day?”

Having lived most of his life in a perpetual downpour, Bruce has never really taken a shine to that particular idiom. 

“I’m saving it,” he says. “Big plans.” 

“Oh?” Bill tilts his head. “What sort of plans?”

“Did you know,” Bruce says, “that it has been scientifically proven that the act of telling someone about something you intend to accomplish releases the same amount of endorphins as the act of accomplishing that task in reality? It basically gives the brain a sense of achievement without really achieving anything, thereby reducing the urge to actually complete the work.”

“Huh,” Bill says. “No, I didn’t know that.”

Bruce smirks. “Well, now you know why I can’t tell you anything.” 

Bill laughs. “Fair enough. Now aren’t you supposed to be at lunch?”

“Yeah,” Bruce nods, then ducks his head shyly. “I just wanted to show you.” 

“I’m glad you did.”

“I’ll see you later, then.” 

Bruce’s hand is on the doorknob when Bill calls, “Wait.” Bruce turns back to look at him. 

“He would have been very proud,” Bill says, and they both know who he’s talking about. 

“Thanks,” Bruce says, his voice thick with emotion. 

He hurries away before the two of them can make a scene, and he doesn’t stop until he reaches the privacy of a spiral staircase to catch his breath and calm his nerves. He considers putting the Felix Felicis in his book bag, but on second thought he stashes it in an inner pocket of his robes. It’s too valuable to risk not keeping it on his person at all times, at least until he can find a good hiding place for it.  


Just before the entrance to the Great Hall, he finds his path unexpectedly blocked by Natasha Romanoff. As usual, Clint Barton is just over her shoulder, ready at a moment’s notice to back her up if she needs him. She looks quite grim. 

“Banner,” she says. 

She calls everyone by their last names. Everyone but Clint. 

“Natasha,” Bruce greets her warily. “Can I help you?”

“You can help yourself.” She folds her arms, her tone serious. “As I’m sure you’re aware, you’ve just acquired a distinct advantage over every other student in this school. A lot of people are gonna want a piece of that. My advice to you is this: don’t give them one.” 

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Bruce says, neutral. “Thanks for the tip.”

“I mean it, Banner,” Natasha presses. “You earned that vial. Don’t give it away.” 

“You can just come right out and say it,” Bruce mutters, his temper beginning to stir. “You don’t want me to give it to Tony.” 

“Whoa,” Clint protests. “No one said anything about Stark.” 

“Who else would you think I was gonna give it to?” Bruce resists the urge to bare his teeth at them. “Look, I appreciate your _concern_ , but I got this, all right? It’s none of your business. I could feed it to Tony’s owl if I felt like it, so, thanks again, have a nice day.” 

He ducks past them and marches into the Great Hall, fighting back his surge of sudden anger. The emotion comes easily to him, too easily; he doesn’t know if it’s the Wolf or just his father, but his blood runs hot and it boils over quickly. He’s gotten a lot better at controlling his temper now that he’s older, but things like that— things like people meddling in his business when he just wants to be left alone— bring out the worst in him. 

His blood cools when he spots Tony waving up ahead. Tony brings out the best in him.

“There he is!” Tony hollers. “You lucky dog!” 

Bruce is too proud of himself to be nervous about the word choice. He _is_ a lucky dog, after all. 

“Hey, Tony,” he grins. “You know, for a while back there I thought _you_ were gonna beat me. That potion of yours was practically _flawless._ ” 

“Yeah, I got a natural talent for the stuff, it’s kind of a gift.” Tony fans away the words. “I try to be modest about it.” 

“You’re an inspiration to us all.” 

At least Tony has the decency to wait until Bruce has had a couple of bites of food before he moves in for the kill. 

“So I was thinking,” he says, leaning back across the space between their respective benches. “You could probably do as much lucky stuff in six hours as you could in twelve.” 

Bruce smiles into his pumpkin juice. “Oh, yeah? You think so?”

“Sure I do!” Tony says eagerly. “I mean, twelve whole hours, that kinda seems like overkill, doesn’t it? Don’t you think the charm would wear off? I think six hours would really be the perfect amount of time. Keep it short and sweet, you know? It’s quality, not quantity.”

“You know, you’ve got a good point,” Bruce says, feigning a slow realization. “Do you think... do you think I should split up my Felix Felicis so I could have two lucky days instead of just one?” 

Tony coughs. “Uh— yeah, yeah you could do that, sure. _Or_...”

He lets the word linger on the air. Bruce isn’t going to let him off the hook that easily. He’s going to make him say it before he shoots him down— because he has absolutely _no_ intention of giving Tony a single golden drop. Tony may be his best friend in the entire world, but he doesn’t need it. Not like Bruce does. Bruce is just enjoying making him sweat for it, so he plays dumb and raises his eyebrows, waiting for Tony to finish the sentence. 

“Or...?” he prompts. 

“Or you could, uh...” Tony coughs again. “I mean, once you’ve divided it, you essentially have a surplus of the stuff, right? The whole idea was that you’d get just the one ride. So if you have an extra dose just laying around, I thought maybe you could, you know...” 

Tony trails off, but then he sees Bruce fighting back laughter and realizes that he’s been on to him the whole time. Caught in the act, Tony serves up his most charming, lopsided, adorable smile. 

“I’d settle for four hours.” 

Before Bruce has a chance to break it to him gently that there’s no way in hell he’s getting any of that potion, someone else takes it upon themselves to intervene. 

“I _knew_ it! Tony, you’re shameless!” 

It’s Steve Rogers, storming up the aisle between the tables, looking like he means business. Bruce watches Tony’s playful expression turn into something brash and sneering. His game face. Bruce is one of the only people who gets to see him without it. 

“Well, well, well,” Tony scoffs. “If it isn’t _Captain_ Rogers, racing to ensure that justice prevails.” 

Steve reaches them and assumes what Tony calls his “Prefect Power Stance,” his fists planted on his hips. 

“That’s not fair, Tony.”

“What, that I was born with stunning good looks _and_ natural charisma?” Tony preens. “ _Life’s_ not fair, hotshot, get used to it.” 

“No, that— that’s not what I meant!” Steve looks more outraged than before, if that’s even possible. “I know what you’re trying to do over here!”

“Enjoy my lunch in a peaceful, Gryffindor-free environment?”

“You’re trying to get Bruce to give you that potion.” 

“So what if I am?”

“So you can’t do that, it’s not _fair._ You didn’t earn that prize. Bruce did, fair and square.” He turns to Bruce, cringing on the Ravenclaw bench. “Don’t give him anything, he doesn’t deserve it.”

Bruce doesn’t bother trying to answer him. He knows he won’t be able to get a word in edgewise. They’re building up momentum now, and the only way to make himself heard over their squabbling would be to shout. He doesn’t want to shout. He doesn’t want _anyone_ to shout, but Tony is already starting to raise his voice.

“I don’t _deserve_ it?” he echoes, indignant. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re lazy and selfish,” Steve’s getting louder, too. “And you see nothing wrong with taking that potion from Bruce even though he’s the one that did all the hard work.”

“Okay, _seriously?_ ” Tony is incredulous. “You expect me to believe that the _only_ reason you came over here was to protect Bruce’s property rights?”

“I don’t expect you to _believe_ anything. It’s the truth.”

“Oh, sure, sure, and it has nothing to do with keeping the potion away from _me._ ”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean me, specifically.” Tony’s smile starts out as condescending, but it turns vicious as he presses relentlessly on. “Let’s be honest, Rogers. The only reason you came over here was because you couldn’t _stand_ the thought of me getting a single drop of that stuff for myself. Why? Because I don’t deserve it. And why’s _that?_ Because if I was good enough for that potion, then that would mean I was every bit as good as Harry _fricking_ Potter.” 

Steve clenches his jaw. Bruce sees all the muscles in his neck go taut with the effort. The details of Harry Potter’s career at Hogwarts are common knowledge here, passed down to the younger students from those who actually went to school with him. The story of Potter winning the Felix Felicis is a familiar one. Bruce has heard it firsthand from Professor Slughorn himself on multiple occasions. Of course Tony would dredge it up for the sake of pushing Steve Rogers’s buttons— and unfortunately, it’s proving quite effective. 

“Drinking that potion wouldn’t make you as good as Harry Potter,” Steve says furiously. “You didn’t _earn_ it.”

“Neither did you,” Tony taunts, and then in a sly tone, he adds, “And neither did Harry, if you ask me.” 

This time Steve takes an actual step forward in anger. 

“What are you saying?”

“I’m _saying_ ,” Tony talks at a volume typically reserved for addressing large crowds. “That the kid went from barely scraping by an ‘Exceeds Expectations’ in his O.W.L. to brewing a perfect Draught of Living Death in four months!” He’s playing to the back of the house now. “I’m _saying_ that it’s pretty obvious he _cheated!_ ”

“Hey!” Steve barks. “Show some respect!” 

“To who? Potter?” Tony laughs, loud and obnoxious. “He was a glorified mascot! A punk who got lucky a few times. He wasn’t a hero, he was just a face to put on the posters.” 

For a second it looks like Steve might actually just haul off and sock Tony in the face. Bruce couldn’t abide that, of course. He’ll stay glued to his seat for as long as possible, but if Steve lays a single finger on Tony, there will be hell to pay. 

Turns out he won’t have to leap up just yet— Steve swallows down his first impulse and forces himself to take a step back, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. When he opens them again, he’s still angry, but he’s in control of it. Bruce knows the feeling. 

“You know, it doesn’t surprise me to hear you talk like that,” Steve says, hard and unflinching. “Considering your dad was a Death Eater.” 

And just like that, Tony’s mocking smile vanishes. He couldn’t have looked more shocked if Steve had actually punched him. Somewhere deep in his mind, Bruce can feel his hackles rising. 

“What did you just say to me?” Tony breathes, appalled. Then the fury starts to hit him, his expression hardening and his tone rising in both volume and pitch. “ _What_ did you just say to me?”

In the next instant he’s lunging off the Slytherin bench and onto his feet, and in the instant after that he’s drawn his wand and pointed it directly at Steve Rogers’s face. His voice is a venomous hiss. 

“My father was _not_ a Death Eater!”

By the time Bruce scrambles to his feet, Steve has his wand out as well, mirroring his opponent’s aim. Bruce immediately positions himself between them. 

“Hey, hey, come on, guys.” He holds out his open hands in a gesture intended to soothe. His nerves are screeching like violins. “We don’t need that.”

“You better take that back,” Tony seethes.

“Or you’ll what?” Steve scoffs. “Last time we fought you ended up on the floor!” 

“You got lucky, Rogers!” Tony charges forward, forcing Bruce to stop him with a hand against his chest. “And that’s the only thing you’re _ever_ gonna have in common with your precious Harry Potter!”

Then Steve charges, too— and now Bruce is holding them both at bay on either end of his outstretched arms. It goes against every instinct he has to stay in this position. Every muscle in his body is telling him that it’s time for fight or flight. Flight’s not an option. He can’t leave Tony in this mess. But he needs to stop this confrontation, _soon_ , or he’s going to lose his temper. He can feel it, stretched tight and trembling and ready to snap. Desperate, he pushes them apart long enough for him to pivot to face Steve, keeping Tony shielded behind his back. 

“Forget it,” he says, his voice strained. “Just back off, all right?” 

Steve gives him an infuriated look, then looks right past him. 

“Come on, Stark,” he challenges. “Quit hiding behind your guard dog!”

And Bruce sees red. 

The next thing he knows Steve is on the floor and he’s fighting to get down to him, to pounce and pummel and strangle— but there’s something holding him back.

“No!” 

It’s the first thing he’s conscious of hearing. It’s Tony’s voice, snapping him back to reality, and it’s Tony’s arms locked around his chest, restraining him. 

“I said cool it!” Tony commands, and Bruce obeys, going limp and placid in Tony’s grasp. 

It’s at that exact moment that Professor Nicholas Fury arrives. Maria Hill is trailing in his wake; she must have run to get him when the fight broke out. To say he looks displeased would be a gross understatement.

“There better be a _damn_ good explanation for what I’m seeing right now.” 

“It’s no biggie,” Tony says breezily. He gives Bruce a reassuring squeeze before releasing him. “We’re all good here, thanks for stopping by.” 

“Let me tell you what I’m seeing, Mr. Stark,” Fury says forcefully. “I am seeing you holding back Mr. Banner from beating the everloving shit out of his fellow student here. Am I correct?” He turns on Bruce, his good eye sharp and accusatory. “Do we have a problem here, Mr. Banner?” 

Bruce quails. “I...”

“It’s not his fault, sir.” 

Steve Rogers clambers to his feet and stands resolutely in front of his professor, fully prepared for a reprimand.

“It was me and Tony,” he declares. “We were arguing. Bruce was just trying to stop a fight and things got out of hand.”

Bruce stares down at the floor, thoroughly impressed with Steve’s willingness to accept responsibility for his actions. He can think of at least one other person who could stand to learn that trick.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Tony complains right on cue. “Don’t throw me under the bus here, Rogers!” 

“Enough!” Fury silences him, then turns to Steve. “While I admire your honesty, Mr. Rogers, it does not excuse the fact that Mr. Banner here knocked you on your ass. I’m taking twenty points from each of you— Gryffindor, Slytherin, and Ravenclaw.” 

Steve nods his head in grim resignation. Tony visibly bites his lip to keep from retorting. Bruce can’t even lift his gaze from his shoes. He just wishes Fury would go away. 

“I’m very disappointed,” Fury says, slow and deliberate. “In all of you.”

And he leaves without another word. Steve sags in despair. He rounds on Tony like he’s about to let him have it, but on second thought he just turns and storms off before he can make things any worse. Tony releases his breath in a curse. 

“Goddamn it,” he spits. 

Bruce manages a dull nod of accord. The confrontation has left his exhausted and miserable. He just wants to crawl back to Ravenclaw Tower and go to sleep, but he only has one free period before his next class and he doesn’t trust himself not to fall into a deep hibernation and sleep straight through till tomorrow. In the meantime he’s completely lost his appetite, and it looks like Tony has, too. They both consider sitting back down at their benches, but then by unspoken agreement they turn and head out of the Great Hall together. 

“I gotta go blow off some steam,” Tony says, plucking at Bruce’s arm. “C’mon, let’s go down to the pitch, you can get some fresh air while I fly a few laps.” 

“Nah,” Bruce rubs his temples, trying to stave off a headache. “I think I’m gonna head to the library. I need to... relax.” 

“Square deal, no worries.”

They walk in silence until they reach the point where they need to go their separate ways. Then, just before the turn, Tony gives a strange, weak chuckle.

“Wanna know what’s really funny?” he asks. 

“What?” Bruce wonders cautiously. 

“Maybe my dad _was_ a Death Eater.” 

He answers Bruce’s stunned look with a sad smile. 

“I mean, I was just a kid, he wouldn’t have told me. Not that he ever tells me anything.”

“It’s not true.” Bruce insists. “Your dad’s a great guy, he never would have gotten mixed up in something like that.” 

“Yeah, well,” Tony shrugs and looks away. “Back in those days it would have been considered a smart business decision, wouldn’t it? And we all know how much he loves those.” When he looks back at Bruce, he’s got his game face on, bright and carefree. “Anyway. I’ll see you at Charms.” 

And he takes off. Bruce doesn’t stop him. He knows Tony doesn’t want to talk about it. He just wanted to get it off his chest, and lucky for him, Bruce is always willing to listen. 

The library is an oasis of calm. Bruce wanders the aisles and picks one at random, and as he walks its length he grabs a volume off the shelf and carries it with him in search of an empty table. He finds one in the back, secluded in a corner. Settling down, he cracks open his book at the first page. _Percival Boggins’s 101 Uses for Flobberworm Mucus._ Perfect. He switches off everything else and loses himself in the text, relaxing his body and opening his mind, forgetting about everything except Flobberworm mucus and its varied and versatile applications. It’s better than meditation. Easier, too. 

He’s all the way up to Use #37 — _a surprisingly effective exfoliant_ — when he suddenly feels tense all over. He flares his nostrils and tries in vain to prick up his ears. Something is coming. The Wolf always knows before he does. 

His whole body jerks when he hears an unexpected _bang!_ from somewhere nearby. From the startled cry and the flurry of pages in the air, Bruce can guess that some poor student picked up a book that had been rigged to burst apart when opened. That can only mean one thing.

Loki Odinson is close by. 

Even after the commotion settles, Bruce stays alert. A minute or so later he spots him, approaching at a lazy saunter, looking every inch the cat that ate the canary. The trick book must have been opened by a Gryffindor. That’s the best explanation for Loki’s smug, satisfied grin as he slides onto the bench next to Bruce without bothering to ask permission to do so. 

“That was quite a performance in Potions today,” he says, and it’s impossible to tell if he’s being sincere or not. “For a moment there I almost thought I had you.” 

“You almost did.” Bruce shifts his weight to put a fraction more distance between them. “Everybody tried their best.”

“ _Almost_ everybody,” Loki corrects. “I noticed that your friend Stark didn’t seem to be all that committed to the effort.”

“Ha,” Bruce tries to laugh but only succeeds in making the sound. “Guess he wasn’t really feeling it.” 

“Perhaps not,” Loki says. 

He pauses and makes a show of considering something. Bruce isn’t fooled. Here comes what Loki _really_ wants to talk about.

“You know,” Loki says. “It’s not the first time I’ve noticed Stark behaving oddly.” 

“What can I say?” Bruce shrugs, trying to project indifference. “He’s a wild card.”

“Hmm,” Loki hums in agreement. “He is at that.” His tone abruptly becomes pointed, direct. “I find it particularly strange that he has a habit of disappearing from our sleeping quarters every month.”

Bruce holds his breath.

Loki looks at him keenly. “And always on the night of the full moon.” 

Bruce clenches his hands into fists under the table. 

Loki feigns ponderation, tapping his chin with his finger. “It’s almost as if... he were sneaking out... to keep someone company.” 

Their eyes meet, and hold. Bruce refuses to show him any fear. Loki looks like he’s planning to eat him for breakfast. 

“Don’t blame Stark,” he says, his voice soft and sweet. “I’d had my suspicions about you long before I detected his monthly truancy. There’s something off about you, Banner. I could tell just by looking at you. All I had to do was figure out what it was.” He examines his fingernails idly. “Once I noticed that you were absent from class after every full moon, it was fairly obvious what you were hiding.” He meets Bruce’s eyes again, his gaze piercing. “They can preach acceptance all they like, but McGonagall and her toadies still don’t want anyone to know that you’re a werewolf.”

The word lands like an atom bomb on Bruce’s eardrums. For a second he can’t even move, can’t even think, his brain completely boiled out by panic and terror. He wishes he could think of something brash and clever to say. He can’t. Loki seizes the silence.

“I understand, of course,” he assures him, his words like poison. “It’s for the best that you keep your, ah, _condition_ concealed from the general student population. From their parents, especially— no one wants their child to share classes with a monster.” 

Bruce wrenches his gaze away to stare down at the blurry pages of his book. He hates that word, he _hates_ it, but it’s all horribly disgustingly true and he’d be lying if he didn’t admit that Loki had him backed into a corner. Sensing his distress, Loki moves in closer, ready for the kill. 

“I’m sure you would prefer to keep this your little secret,” he murmurs. “And I’m sure you’re aware of what I would accept in exchange for my silence.” 

A sharp, sudden flash of anger hits Bruce like lightning. _So that’s what this is about._ A small, sensible part of him had been wondering, _why now?_ And here it is. This is Loki’s play for the Felix Felicis. Tony tried sweet-talking. Loki is going for all-out blackmail. 

_Thief._ Bruce’s blood is heating up, the Wolf snarling in outrage. Loki has the _gall_ to pull a move like this, to rake him over the coals so he can steal Bruce’s hard-fought and hard-won golden prize. It’s unthinkable. It’s inexcusable. And even though every inch of Bruce’s conscious mind just wants to roll over and surrender without a fight, a deeper, stronger part of him will do absolutely no such thing.

Without even realizing it, he shoots out his hand to latch onto Loki’s wrist, his grip like iron.

“So,” he growls. “You wanna steal my luck? Well you’re welcome to it, my friend. I can even tell you when you’re gonna have to use it— the next full moon. Because if you steal that potion from me, I’m gonna remember it. And the next time the monster comes out, you’re gonna need all the luck in the world to get away from him.”

Intimidated, Loki tries to tug his arm away. Bruce won’t let go. He grabs on with his other hand, too, his fingers curling like claws. 

“I’ve got your scent, Loki.” He shows his teeth. “I’ll track you down wherever you go. So if you still want that potion, go ahead, take it. Just know that the monster will be coming for you, and he’s gonna be _pissed off._ ”

He holds on through the next futile yank— and the third time Loki tries to free his arm, Bruce lets him. He glares, unyielding, as Loki rubs his wrist and looks at him with newfound uncertainty. Hackles up. Teeth bared. Bruce is just as stunned as Loki to realize that he means every word of his threat. He worked too hard for this prize. No one is taking it away from him. 

“Perhaps...” Loki begins, but the thought never forms all the way through and the sentence trails off into nothing. 

Bruce doesn’t speak. He doesn’t trust himself not to break out raving like a madman. He just sits and glares and hopes Loki’s own survival instincts will do the rest.

“I think we should each consider our positions,” Loki says stiffly. “And continue this discussion at a later date.” 

He slides off the bench and disappears into the maze of the library. For now, at least, he’s been thoroughly cowed. 

Bruce releases his breath in a ragged sigh. Laying his fingers against his throat, he feels that his pulse is racing. So much for relaxing. He’s wound up tighter than ever before, and with only a few minutes left before the next period, he has no choice but to abandon his oasis and head on to class, his nerves still uncomfortably rattled. Loki knows. He _knows._ Bruce feels like he’s walking through the halls with a neon sign over his head: **WEREWOLF. TREAT WITH CAUTION.** He hasn’t felt this self-conscious since he first came to Hogwarts, years ago. 

He almost screams when someone taps him on the back of the head, but as he whirls around in panic, he sees that it’s only Tony, his grin crumbling when he sees Bruce’s horrified expression.

“Whoa!” he exclaims. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Tony,” Bruce gasps, so grateful to see him that he actually grabs on to his arm in relief. 

Tony’s hair is all wild and wind-torn, and everything about him smells like the autumn air and the cut grass of the Quidditch pitch. Bruce drinks it in, the anchor, the focus, leaving behind everything that happened in the library and focusing on the here and now. 

“Did you have a good run?” he asks, craving distraction and knowing that Tony will talk his ear off if prompted. 

“Great run,” Tony says, leading the way towards the Charms classroom. “Thor Odinson was out there with his little fifth year lackeys, Sif and the Three Stooges. We played keep-away.”

“Was this consensual keep-away,” Bruce wonders. “Or give-me-back-my-stuff keep-away?”

“Irrelevant,” Tony declares. “Needless to say we all got a good workout.” 

They’re almost to their destination when Bruce abruptly drags Tony into an alcove. Tony starts to protest, but Bruce cuts him off, his voice low and urgent.

“It’s Loki,” he says, trying not to panic. “He knows. About me, I mean. He tried to blackmail me for the liquid luck.” 

“Ugh,” Tony rolls his eyes. “Some people just have no tact.”

“Tony, this is _serious,_ ” Bruce hisses. “He _knows._ What am I gonna do?”

“Hey, relax,” Tony soothes him. “He hasn’t told anyone yet, has he?” When Bruce shakes his head, Tony gives him a reassuring thump on the back. “So he knows how to keep a secret! And I’m guessing you gave him a reason to continue to do so, yes?”

“Yeah,” Bruce mumbles. “I kinda told him... that the Wolf would hunt him down at the next full moon.”

“Oh my God.” Tony grabs Bruce’s arm with one hand and his own chest with the other, ecstatic. “That is the best thing I have ever heard in my life. Wow. I will always regret not being present for that moment.”

“But I don’t know how long it’ll _work_ ,” Bruce hems, still too nervous to calm down. “What if he calls me on it? I’m not actually gonna sic the Wolf on him, that’d be insane.” 

“As long as you don’t let _him_ know that, I think you’re gonna be fine.” Tony smiles and shakes his head. “Loki’s not the type to take uncalculated risks. If he’s afraid of the Big Bad Wolf, he’s gonna stay in his brick house.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

When Professor Flitwick admits them all into the classroom, the Ravenclaws and Slytherins split automatically into two groups, one on each side of the room. Tony and Bruce sit together in the middle. On the farthest edge of the Slytherin group, Loki sits studying his textbook, pretending not to notice Bruce at all. That’s a good sign, Bruce hopes. Maybe he really is going to let it rest. Even if it’s only temporary, Bruce is grateful for the reprieve. 

Today’s lesson is _Aguamenti,_ a charm used to conjure water. The incantation is easy enough, but the wrist movement is very precise and surprisingly difficult to master. Phil Coulson manages to conjure a cloud of thick white fog, while Emil Blonsky’s wand spits out a single, jagged piece of ice. Bruce is able to summon a weak, sporadic drip, and he counts that as a win. At the desk beside him, Tony has his chair leaned back so that the front two legs are off the ground. 

“ _Aguamenti_ ,” he says confidently, and with an effortless flourish, a stream of fresh water begins pouring from the end of his wand. “ _Contineo,_ ” he commands, and the water contains itself within an invisible skin, a water balloon minus the balloon. 

Bruce is watching with raised eyebrows. The display is already impressive, but he knows Tony isn’t done yet. 

“ _Leviosa,_ ” Tony whispers, and the liquid orb begins to drift away like a hot air balloon cast free from its moorings. As Tony guides its flight with his wand, he looks over at Bruce, his mouth quirked. The question is unspoken, but it’s loud and clear. 

_Who gets it?_

Everyone is so focused on their own work that no one seems to notice the ball of water floating in their midst. First Tony steers it towards Maria Hill, no doubt as payback for meddling in his business _twice_ today— but Bruce shakes his head with a chuckle. She was just doing her job. Next the orb bobs over to Loki Odinson— and this time Bruce shakes his head with great urgency. 

“Do _not_ piss him off, Tony,” he begs under his breath. 

Finally, the water ball wanders over to a target they can both agree on. Bruce gives his consent with a nod, and with a flick of Tony’s wrist, Justin Hammer is completely drenched. 

“Awwww!” he whines, stunned and soaked. “Man, not cool!”

Professor Flitwick whirls around and instantly locks eyes on Tony, who is already holding his hands up in surrender.

“Whoops,” he says. “Guess it got away from me.” 

“I have no tolerance for shenanigans in my classroom, Mr. Stark,” Flitwick says tartly. “Ten points from Slytherin.” 

“ _Awwww!_ ” Justin whines. “Tony, you suck!”

Flitwick clears his throat loudly and Justin drops his gaze to his desk, silenced. 

“In a completely unrelated matter,” Flitwick continues. “That was a very skillful application of the Aguamenti charm. Ten points to Slytherin.”

Tony brings his wand to his lips and blows over the end of it like a Muggle gunslinger. Bruce rolls his eyes. You can get away with pretty much anything when you’re as talented as Tony Stark.

They both have one more free period before dinner. Bill Weasley was right — this sixth year schedule seems like it’s filled with nothing but time, but Bruce knows that soon enough the homework will start piling up at a rate and intensity that he’s never experienced before. He can’t wait. He wouldn’t have come to school at all if he didn’t want to challenge his mind. 

“Got any plans?” Tony wonders as they walk the corridors together. 

“Yep,” Bruce answers.

When he fails to clarify, Tony gives him a sidelong look, intrigued.

“ _Secret_ plans?” 

“Personal plans,” Bruce smiles. “But I’ll meet you at dinner.” 

“Uh huh, I see how it is,” Tony makes a show of acting affronted. “Fine, whatever, go mark your territory. I’ll catch you later, Call of the Wild.” 

He gives Bruce a grin and a wink before heading off to do whatever it is that Tony does in his spare time. He’ll probably go practice charms in some highly-trafficked courtyard, working up a crowd and getting his daily dose of adulation. Good for him. In the meantime, it’s Bruce’s turn to go out and get some fresh air. 

He doesn’t use the main entrance to the castle— even though it’s during class hours and therefore completely permissible, he still feels uncomfortable with such a conspicuous route. Instead he exits through a side courtyard, hopping the low stone balustrade so that he’s loose on the school grounds. Following the castle wall, Bruce moves downhill and eventually reaches a thick hedge. There he strips off his robes, his shoes and socks, and his school tie, wadding them into a bundle and wedging it into the brush. He stands barefoot, savoring the crisp September breeze on his bare forearms. He’s got the Felix Felicis in his trouser pocket. 

Quick and quiet, he sets off in the direction of the Quidditch pitch. He keeps low to the ground, his ears and nostrils wide open for signs of any other living creature. He does not wish to be seen. Fortunately there’s hardly anyone out and about this late in the day, and he only has to take one detour to avoid a group of Hufflepuff fifth years discussing their Herbology class. 

The Whomping Willow stirs as he approaches. When he was younger he used to be afraid of it, but now he knows that the key is to be fearless. Even as the massive branches start to swing towards him, he just runs and ducks and aims straight for the little knob at the base of the trunk. He punches it only a moment before a tree limb smashes into the back of his skull, heaving a sigh of relief as the boughs return to their resting positions and the secret passage opens up beneath him. 

The tunnel is dark and cool. He knows it by heart, could probably run its length with his eyes closed, and he races down the passageway at a gallop, his bare feet slapping against the compacted dirt. The only other person to know this tunnel as well as he does was probably Remus Lupin. That’s a nice thought. This is something they could have shared. 

He comes up through the trapdoor into the Shrieking Shack. Here’s another place that once belonged to Lupin and now belongs to him. Lupin’s history with the Shack is a much sadder one— Bruce can’t imagine what it would be like to be locked inside of it to suffer through an unchecked transformation. Since the Wolfsbane Potion was created before he was born, Bruce has been taking it ever since he started at Hogwarts. He typically spends his full moons in Bill Weasley’s office. Once Tony found out he was allowed to keep him company, and though they usually just curl up together and sleep, every once in a while Bill will tag along and they’ll all three go out to roam the Hogwarts grounds in the dark. 

Although he’s never needed it, Bruce has always felt a close connection to the Shrieking Shack. He always remembered what Lupin told him about it, what it meant to him, and how to get there. He found the passageway on his own. As far as he’s aware, none of the professors even know that he comes here. That’s how he prefers it. It’s a special place, a secret place, just for him. Lupin would be glad to know that the Shack has provided shelter for both of them, each in their own way. 

There’s a loose floorboard under the four-poster bed. Bruce tugs it up and reaches underneath to retrieve the biscuit tin. Sitting cross-legged on the dusty floor, he sets the tin in his lap and removes the lid. 

The treasures are few in number but incalculable in value. His mother’s wedding ring. Her handwritten recipe for a locating powder made with batwings. A picture of her, laughing and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture looping over and over. A picture of Remus Lupin at the age of seventeen, attempting to smile and instead coughing nervously into his fist. A clipping from _The Daily Prophet,_ Remus Lupin’s obituary, headed by an image of him as Bruce remembers, older, careworn, but still with a spark in his eyes. Bruce touches each photograph in turn, missing them so much he can hardly breathe. 

From his pocket he retrieves the Felix Felicis. In the dim, dusty Shack, it glows like a sliver of sunlight. Bruce turns it around in his fingers, admiring the beauty of it. Then he tucks it into the tin under the photographs. 

_Sorry, Tony. This one stays with me._

By the time he emerges from the tunnel back onto the Hogwarts grounds, the sky is getting dark. It’s almost time for dinner— but not so soon that he has to rush, so he pauses halfway up the hill to turn and admire the sunset. The clouds are streaked with gold that deepens into orange before turning into a burning red band across the horizon. Just above the canopy of the Forbidden Forest, Bruce can see a pair of Thestrals coming back in to roost for the night. 

_It’s funny,_ Bruce thinks. _But most people will go through their entire career at Hogwarts without ever knowing that the carriages don’t pull themselves._

Bruce has always known. 

Tony has no idea.

Bruce hopes he never finds out. 

 

 

 

___________end.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Когда взойдет осенняя луна («When the Autumn Moon is Bright»)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2515250) by [Leshaya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leshaya/pseuds/Leshaya), [Tinnory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tinnory/pseuds/Tinnory)




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